


Karkat Vantas, Vanquisher of Horrorterrors

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Affection, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub Undertones, Hair Braiding, M/M, Protectiveness, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3814087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hair is soft as you sift it between your fingers, guarding him as he sleeps; by the time he wakes, you will have turned it into a mass of braids and untangled curls, but you know he doesn’t mind. You think he likes it when you play with his hair, not that he’ll ever admit it, even to you- there are some things that even the level of trust you share isn’t enough to forego his blueblood pride for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karkat Vantas, Vanquisher of Horrorterrors

You lay with him, his head resting on your lap, your hands tangled in his hair, slowly braiding the strands as he sleeps undisturbed. You know he doesn’t rest easy, you know he hasn’t since he’d grown too big and too strong for the fragile little recuperacoons provided by the drones, and it’s illegal to take them apart and examine their inner workings so it’s not like he can build himself another- not that he can, on this fucking meteor.

 

He’s massive, now, bigger than he’d been when you’d started this thrice be damned game, and he towers over you by a good two feet, maybe more; you have better things to do than measure exact heights.

 

Still, he bows to you, and its something you never cease to stop wondering at. He bows to your whims and desires like a blade of grass against a windstorm, except easier, more willing. He caters to your commands and does his best to please you, even if you order him to do ridiculous things, or tell him to embarrass himself in front of you. You’re ashamed to admit that you had done so more than once, at the beginning of your relationship.

 

You’ve grown in maturity, though, and he’d grown in independence, confidence, enough to tell you when you order him to do something that makes him uncomfortable. He’d grown in trust, and he trusts you not to take things too far, or make him do something dangerous.

 

He trusts you, caters to you, obeys you, and in turn you provide him with something akin to stability in this huge fucking mess of a life that the two of you now lead; the rules of your little trysts always stay the same, as do the punishments and rewards for disobeying and being obedient, respectively. This is a constant, for you and for him, and both of you cling to the stability and sameness perhaps a bit more than is healthy, but hey, you’re not killing anyone in fits of madness so who cares?

 

His hair is soft as you sift it between your fingers, guarding him as he sleeps; by the time he wakes, you will have turned it into a mass of braids and untangled curls, but you know he doesn’t mind. You think he likes it when you play with his hair, not that he’ll ever admit it, even to you- there are some things that even the level of trust you share isn’t enough to forego his blueblood pride for.

 

You comb out tangles and twist another patch into a fancy fishtail braid, smooth and shiny, inky black; his skin is damp with perspiration even as he rests, and you have to tease a few strands away from his forehead, smoothing them back with the palm of your hand. He twitches, breathes sharply, and you tug a lock of his hair, letting out a little croon. He relaxes against you, solid body lax with sleep.

 

He has nightmares about arrows and crimson blood, he has for as long as he’s known you; it’s not unusual for him to jolt awake in terror, but you do your best to keep it from happening. Poor guy deserves at least some rest, with all he’s been doing for everyone.

 

Guard bots have slowly taken the watch positions of everyone on board the stupid meteor, leaving more time for valuable sleep and more valuable preparation; he works tirelessly to provide some sort of boon to your side, and you appreciate him for it, even if he stutters and mumbles and sweats and attempts to downplay his efforts.

 

So, you guard him the rare times he allows himself to sleep. You card your fingers through his hair and hum, and you protect him in a way he will allow no one else to do, just as he allows no one else to order him as you do. He is yours, yours to order, yours to protect, yours to care for, and you sit with him as he sleeps off nights and days of work alike, braiding his hair and making sure he’ll wake up with a curly mane fancy and full enough to rival even the most pampered of show hoof beasts.

 

You like doing what you can for him. As much as you enjoy the system you have, the little games you play, the strict, unbending rules and the roles of dominant and submissive, you think that you enjoy this more. You enjoy caring for him, you enjoy making him feel safe, and you think he needs someone to do such things for him, after everyone just assuming that he’s fine on his own.

 

With his strength and his height, it’s not really farfetched, and you don’t blame anyone for scoffing at the idea that Equius fucking Zahhak would need caring for, would need protection and safety, but he does, needs it more than anyone you think you’ve ever met, and you just so happen to want to provide such things for him.

 

He whines, high and sharp, a sound incongruous to his appearance and the rigid control with which he holds himself in his waking moments, and you bend to press your lips to his, your hand gripping his hair tightly. The other worms its way between you and scruffs the back of his neck, your hold strong and firm, and the harsh sounds die away, replaced with a soft, ragged purr.

 

“Hush,” you croon, and he relaxes further, even his purr fading as he falls deeper into sleep, “I have you.”

 

Even dreams flee in the face of your protective instinct, and you grin a sharp-toothed grin, feeling a ridiculous burst of triumph. You, Karkat Vantas, have defeated Equius’s nightmares, have banished them back into the hell from whence they came, and you have never felt prouder about any other accomplishment in your life.

  
  



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